


Tuxedo Dress-Up

by Blake



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Closet Discourse, Closet Jokes, Closet Sex, Closets, Famous Harry, Flirting, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Hollywood, M/M, Non-Famous Louis, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Tension, real estate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 18:19:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14290641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Louis is an aspiring song writer by day, a make up artist for drag queens by night, and masquerading as a full time real estate agent for his third most famous (and first most handsome) client Harry Styles.Or, five times they fail to fuck in a closet, and one time they get it right.





	Tuxedo Dress-Up

**Author's Note:**

> My prompt was "hand jobs" and "walk-in closet." I couldn't go halfway, so this story is all about closets.

Louis is burning up as he waits outside the charming, 4-bedroom hacienda for his third most famous client. He’s sweating. It’s the Los Angeles sun (burning through February like kindling and somehow hotter up here in the hills where he can look down at the thick layer of brown smog hugging the city), or the heavy fabric of his nicest suit (which he brings out for wealthy clients like he brings out the remnants of his accent, which would have naturally faded after his family moved to California ten years ago if he hadn’t quickly realized that the entertainment industry thought that _any_ English accent sounded posh and therefore worth listening to).

It’s also the anticipation of seeing his third most famous client. But it’s not because he’s famous. Louis doesn’t even know if he’s actually famous. (He makes it a point never to Google his clients. He treats celebrities as colleagues, because that’s what they will be…whenever Louis starts making enough money writing songs to forget about his real estate license and other side jobs.) He only has Closet Case on his mental Most Famous Client list because he apparently has enough money that he’s looking to buy a _second_ multimillion-dollar house in Los Angeles only weeks after buying his first, (a freestanding townhouse with incredible natural light, located just a bit down the hill from this one,) and because he’s really weird. Like, nobody who hasn’t yet “made it _”_ is confidently eccentric enough to wear Hawaiian shirts one day and a floral suit the next.

Oh, and he’s also famous enough to be fucking obsessed with being in the closet. As in, nobody knowing he’s gay is more important to him than exploring the fucking incredible sexual chemistry he shares with his reasonably sexy gay realtor. As in, _blatantly_ interested in Louis, but even more worried about the possibility that Louis would kiss and tell. As in, flirts on the border of obscenity, and then pulls the rug out from under Louis to remind him they need to find a house with a _bigger closet_. The fuck.

Clients are clients, though. After the last house he showed Closet Case, Louis started seeking out places with actually huge walk-in closets. If that’s what Closet Case wants, that’s what Closet Case will get. Louis is a good realtor (and model, and songwriter, and driver, and dancer, and paid audience member depending on the day and who’s asking). He channels his spurned-lover bitterness into using the nickname Closet Case and writing a song about love thriving despite external scrutiny.

Anyways, money plus the luxury of true eccentricity plus the awareness that if Louis _were_ to kiss and tell, there would be someone who wanted to _hear_ him tell—that all equals _famous_. But not as famous as Louis’s second most famous client, whose hit single Louis hears on the radio twice an hour. God, Louis doesn’t even know what Closet Case does. Singer? Actor? He name-dropped Christopher Nolan once, but Louis hasn’t kept up with the latest awards season films. Surely he must be an actor?

Louis continues to nervously lock and unlock his phone for a few seconds, debating as to whether he should break his own rule and do a search for his third most famous client’s name. In his head, he pictures the huge, open smile and that dumb, sweet, cocksucking mouth, and Louis’s heart races. The sweat drips down the back of his neck. Maybe it would be good to look him up, to break the illusion of them having something special. Maybe Closet Case is Taylor Swift’s new “boyfriend”, and Louis can gag about it and allow the loss of respect to smother his sexual attraction. Louis leaves his phone unlocked, opens a browser window, and types in, _Harry Styles_.

“Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis nearly drops his phone, but manages to lock and pocket it instead before turning to face the deep, morbid voice that startled him. And god, yeah, there’s Harry Styles. Louis can’t bring himself to call him Closet Case. Not when he’s standing right in front of him, looking so pretty and disastrous at the same time, head bowed slightly in supplication even as he floats around on a figurative cloud like the physical world is something he’s heard of once. Louis can’t resent him for being scared; he’s obviously too young to handle the level of fame that’s dealing with. Maybe he’s a youtuber. A youtuber who is smiling nervously at Louis, hands punching into the pockets of some dreadful nineties windbreaker with a _possibly-_ professional sports logo on it.

“You’re late,” Louis points out, eyes drifting down Harry’s long, slow-moving legs to see the women’s cut pin-striped trousers and Oscar Wilde loafers he has chosen to pair this thrift store windbreaker with. The last thing this kid needs is a walk-in closet—god forbid any excess of space encourages his exploration of fashion. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says sincerely, as though Louis might punish him—by _not_ showing him the charming, 4-bedroom hacienda. Not by getting him close, (so fucking close, leaking freely into his softly closed mouth and fluttering around his fingers,) and then making him wait to come. Louis has to remind himself these things when Harry is in his presence, carefully soft and painfully attentive to Louis’s opinions.

Harry doesn’t want the best sex he’s ever had. Harry doesn’t want Louis to give him exactly—no, like really, _exactly—_ what he needs. Harry has probably not lived enough to know that this kind of chemistry is not an everyday occurrence. (It’s not like Louis walks around the world thinking he’s god’s gift to gay sex; it’s just that, within ten minutes of showing Harry around the first house he bought, Louis was painfully aware that, together, _they_ could be god’s gift to gay sex.)

Louis ignores the apology, since Harry apparently wants to keep it professional but can’t keep the _yes, daddy_ out of his tone without daddy’s help. “I think you’ll like this place. Better than the last place I showed you. Bit less posh, but you like it a bit rough, yeah?” Louis lets his south Yorkshire accent run wild, as he has grown comfortable doing around Harry. Harry, who is also an English transplant, and also very clearly from Not-London, and who speaks in a careful mumble Louis could never hope to out-class.

It isn’t until Harry’s face finishes turning bright pink and starts exploring red hues that Louis realizes he’s said something inappropriately suggestive. It just comes so naturally with Harry. Shit.

“I wouldn’t know,” Harry says. Given the context of their prior conversations, Louis knows he must be trying for aloofness. Still, his constantly fucked-sounding voice makes the words sound like a coy request for Louis to _show_ him that he likes it a bit rough.

Louis lifts the flaps of his coat, fanning air in to where he’s probably staining his shirt with sweat. He should have skipped the coat. Harry wouldn’t have cared about the decreased formality. And now it’s too late, unless he wants to walk around in a visibly dampened shirt. It’s the Los Angeles sun, and the heat of Harry’s presence.

The heat of Harry’s _gaze_. When Louis looks up, he finds those huge, green eyes fixed on some point near his belt, in a trance or mentally undressing him or both. Louis could make Harry lick the suck the sweat out of his shirt, if that’s what Harry wanted.

“It has a really big closet,” Louis says, in a very professional and quite possibly bitter tone.

Harry blinks a few times, his face drawing up into a loose furrow as he focuses on Louis’s face. It’s stupid. Unfair. Louis should not be feeling guilty for bringing up the closet Harry has been so fucking insistent about over the past five house showings. Why do Harry’s stupid puppy-dog, _closeted_ eyes make Louis feel like _he’s_ the one who is ruining sexually charged moments?

“Show us, then,” Harry declares, his words morosely bleeding together, sounding more northern than Louis’s own mum.

Louis leads the way to the hacienda’s front door, rolling his eyes beneath their lids. He’ll show Harry the closet. He’ll show Harry all the closets.

 

Two days later, Louis skips the jacket and is shivering in his navy button-down shirt as he shows Harry around a drafty, three-story victorian that’s probably haunted.

“See, this one’s got a closet,” Louis says gesturing to one half of the master bedroom, “ _And_ a wardrobe.” He points to the looming oak wardrobe, the only piece in the _allegedly_ unfurnished house. “S’open-minded, innit.” He leaves out the part where he’s ninety percent sure there’s a demon hiding inside the wardrobe.

Harry saunters over to the wardrobe and gently opens the doors, his face pinched in critique, but not in terror of what awaits behind those doors. “An open-minded Victorian,” Harry muses. There’s no vocal difference between his distaste and his usual tone, but the usual brightness in his eyes is gone as he judges the wardrobe, hard. “How quirky.”

Louis is actually relieved that Harry apparently hates the wardrobe, because he would feel bad about placing such a pretty boy in such a haunted house. Also, the sooner Harry rules out this house, the sooner Louis can get back to the light and heat of day.

“Are there any coats in there?” Louis asks hopefully. He would wear a haunted coat. Anything to get his brain back to the temperature at which it stops imagining horror movie content.

Harry’s front half disappears inside of the wardrobe. Louis panics for a moment, thinking that a spirit must be sucking Harry into its personal hell-wardrobe. Then his compromised brain notices the delicate curve of Harry’s calves in his tight skinny jeans as he struggles to stabilize himself while bent in half. Louis wants to touch those calves. They look perfect to hold onto.

“Nope. No coats,” Harry announces, simultaneously muffled and echoed.

Suddenly, Harry pops out of the wardrobe, looking straight at Louis. It’s the fastest he’s ever seen the boy move, ever. Hopefully, he wasn’t startled into such speed by a ghost. “Are you…cold?” Harry asks, having apparently realized, after sixty seconds, _why_ Louis asked if there were any coats in the wardrobe. Maybe this doesn’t count as Harry’s fastest movement.

“I’ve got poor circulation, ok?” Louis asks. He acts excessively defensive when he wants to be funny instead of pathetic.

The actual fastest moment Harry Styles has ever made is him striding over to Louis while shrugging his own coat from his shoulders. “Here, take mine,” he says intently. Who knew Harry Styles has got a mothering streak?

Louis eyes the slim-fitting, leopard (or cheetah?) print trench coat hungrily. If his standards are low enough for a haunted coat, then they’re low enough for Harry Styles’ fashion.

But before he is bathed in Harry Styles’ (and some poor leopard’s or cheetah’s) leftover body heat, Harry comes to an awkward stop in his tracks, staring at Louis with alarmed eyes. Louis takes the opportunity to look at Harry’s loose, plush, wide mouth, and think about how warm it could make him.

“Erm.” Still awkward, Harry turns in his tracks, so that he’s facing the wardrobe instead of Louis. He shrugs the coat back on, then sort of… well, it looks as though he’s pulling something from his coat pockets with as much (not much) stealth as possible and transferring the something into his jeans pockets. There’s a lot of shuffling, and rustling, and Louis is _cold_ , here, ok?

At last, Harry removes his coat and turns to hand it to Louis. Louis accepts it without shame. Reflexively, he shoves his hands into the pockets, but he’s uncertain whether the reflex is to seek warmth for his fingers or to find out if there’s anything left of what Harry worked so hard to hide.

Harry is doing that thing he does where he pulls on his lower lip and moves it around in weird shapes. Louis’s wits are instantly restored.

“Got something big hiding in those skin-tight jeans, have we?”

Louis looks down and revels in how obvious it is that Harry is wishing he had a coat to hide his crotch behind right now. He really _does_ appear to be hung, but Louis noticed that a while ago. What he’s really looking for is the outline of whatever he’s got in his pockets that’s so secret that he had to turn his back to keep Louis from seeing it. Harry’s hips shift from side to side, uncomfortable under Louis’s scrutiny.

Of course, in the left pocket, lower than the phone that’s peeking out, there’s a very obvious outline of a pack of either cigarettes or cards. “Fancy an impromptu game of Go Fish?” he asks, sarcasm dragging his voice down.

“What?” Harry asks, his voice unusually high. Louis looks up, and feels bad for the boy. If he thinks it’s shameful to smoke, then he’s even less experienced than Louis thought.

Louis points at the guilty pocket, without removing his hand from his own (Harry’s) coat pocket. “Wouldn’t mind a fag, if I’m honest,” he says, even though he moved to the States at too young an age to justify using such a word in reference to a cigarette. He must have lost some of his mind in the cold, or the haunting, or the sexual frustration. He’s pushing, more than he should.

“What?” Harry repeats. His gorgeous hands—huge yet powerfully delicate, just like his mouth—drop to hover over the fly of his jeans, where Louis is _not even looking_.

“May I please have a cigarette,” Louis says, enunciating with particular care. “How old are you?” he asks, genuinely concerned about the answer considering how skittish the boy is.

Finally, Harry slides his hands inside his pockets, one in each. Louis feels a strange satisfaction that borders on the sexual. He releases a breath, as Harry answers, “Old enough to know that these’ll kill you.”

Louis nods in agreement with the fact that Harry’s thighs will someday kill him. They’re perfectly plump and long at the same time, and Harry loves to have them bitten. Louis knows this. He just does. Just as surely as he knows, on some level, that Harry isn’t talking about his thighs.

He carefully pulls out his pack of cigarettes and hands the whole thing over. It’s not a very sexy gesture, not the Bogie-Bacall intimate lighting ceremony Louis imagined in some part of his brain that sits high and fluttering in his gut.

Louis takes the pack, but doesn’t feel like pointing out that he doesn’t have a lighter. “Ta, thanks,” he says mockingly, stuffing the cigarettes back into the pocket of Harry’s coat. At least he can fiddle with the packaging while he shows Harry the custom-tiled master bath.

Louis may be a filthy bastard who has come more than once to the thought of Harry whining about how good daddy’s cock feels, but he cannot, _will_ not be the kind of person who convinces a naive twenty-something to adopt his “more mature” worldview: that it’s silly to be ashamed of smoking—equally as silly as it is to think that the industry won’t provide you with enough closets that you never have to construct one yourself.

 

“What do you think of this one?” Louis asks in the kitchen of a unique, remodeled Craftsman home. They keep ending up all over town, since Harry’s only articulated parameters are “preferably less than two million” and “the closet is the number one priority.” No preference for neighborhood or architecture, no strong opinion on swimming pools.

Louis slides his hand along the counter top, checking for dust. Don’t ask him why he’s looking for flaws, or why he has come into the last three houses hoping that Harry wouldn’t be satisfied, and would need to see another. He just… wants to make sure his client is completely satisfied. “Proper bachelor pad, yeah?” he adds, turning to Harry with a lifted eyebrow.

Harry’s face, which has been politely unimpressed since they walked up the pathway, curls into a scowl. Or a pout. A scowl performed by someone who more regularly pouts. “No.”

“No?” Louis asks, trying to check the bubble of happiness that rises at the thought that he’ll have to show Harry yet another house. “An improper bachelor pad?”

Harry’s face falls from its scowl. Louis feels bad for feeling good about anything. Harry’s sadness breaks his heart like a small animal dying. Something in Harry sobers up, though, and he turns to meet Louis’s eyes, resolute. “It’s a family home.”

“So…” Louis catches the hint of a smile on Harry’s pliant face. “That’s a… no? then?” he asks, completely unclear about whether he offended Harry by insinuating that he would want anything other than the life of a heterosexual couple with 2.5 kids, or whether the offense was showing him a family home when he clearly needed something more in the style of a bachelor pad. “It would help if you gave me more to work with.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, sincere as ever. But instead of providing more information about what exactly he’s looking for in a house, he proceeds to wander around from room to room.

Louis maintains his distance, hoping to observe cues since this boy is apparently unable to articulate his needs. Harry remains blank faced as he peers into the guest bedroom. He sneers a bit at the very contemporary, chrome shower, where once sat a porcelain tub. Louis tells him this bit of trivia about the house, and the corner of Harry’s mouth lifts. He’d probably like an old claw-foot bath. His messy, cropped brown hair is curling at the ears, like he’s one of those people who uses sea salt instead of shampoo. Maybe he’d like a beach house.

Halfway up the wooden-railed staircase, Harry turns his head and asks, “Could you show me another house tomorrow evening?”

Usually, he waits for Louis to locate a new place, and then arranges the showing time via text. Louis is taken aback. “Oh, uh. Of course.” Harry faces forward again, but doesn’t ascend until Louis takes a step up behind him. His ass looks fantastic in these grey sweatpants he’s wearing. Tomorrow is Thursday. Oh, Thursday. “Oh wait, actually. I’m busy tomorrow.”

Harry’s ass is very, very close to Louis’s crotch. Right, because he’s stopped climbing the stairs. “Of course,” Harry says, not at all sounding like it’s a matter of course. It sounds more like a revelation. “You’ve other clients to show houses to.”

Something about the strained dip between Harry’s shoulder blades makes Louis aggressively honest. “Er, no actually. Or, not tomorrow, at least. Got a makeup gig, is all.”

Harry turns around and looks Louis over head to toe and back again, his eyes wide, mind blown. “Makeup?”

“Yes,” Louis says, feeling more caught off guard than he is accustomed to. Wincing, he imagines telling Harry that he’ll be spending tomorrow night backstage at a bar in West Hollywood earning a couple hundred bucks by doing hair and makeup for a drag queen. Harry and his closet would probably prefer not to know. He clears his throat. “I work as a… _stylist_ , sometimes,” he declares.

Harry bites his lip. His adam’s apple bobs. Louis notices these kinds of things. “You don’t make enough money in real estate?”

Louis sputters. He never realized before that they haven’t had the “So what do you _actually_ do, I can tell you’re not just a realtor” conversation yet—that staple of LA interactions in which novice scripts are handed off, soundclouds are shared, instagrams are exchanged. Louis could explain how he siphons off the easy clients from his ex-boyfriend’s real estate business, how he doesn’t actually know anything about how things work. He could explain that he makes just enough to pay for his music production software and the occasional demo CD. Could explain that mixing up real estate with drag gigs helps him feel like a struggling artist instead of a suit-wearing career man.

“I’m actually a songwriter,” is the first thing to come out of his mouth. “This is my side job.”

Harry looks at him with that curious intensity of his, green eyes fucking sparkling. He bites his lip again. His adam’s apple bobs. He’s so close, Louis can smell his sweat.

Fighting down discomfort, Louis pushes on. “But it’s a side job I take very seriously. Just come upstairs and see the closet I picked out for you.”

Harry takes two steps, just guided by Louis’s forward energy. After those two steps, he halts and scowls. Pouts. Scowl-pouts. He brings both feet onto the same step so he can twist his hips and look down at Louis, who feels very towered over. Louis holds his breath as Harry’s words come out very slowly, full of intent. “You know why I need a big closet, don’t you?”

Louis closes his eyes in order to avoid rolling them. His intake of breath draws in the scent of Harry’s sweat and sea-salt-hair. Fuck his life, catering to sexy-smelling, infantile millionaires who don’t even know whether they want a kitchen island or a breakfast nook.

“To keep all your floral print shirts separate from your floral print suits,” Louis answers. 

Astoundingly, Harry smiles. Louis smiles too, a gut response to his boy being happy. “No,” Harry murmurs. His breath tastes like the tang of a throaty kiss, a mild hint of tobacco.

“No?” Louis questions, reaching out to brush his fingers across the lowest button of Harry’s bright red, floral shirt. He remembers himself and pulls back in the moment before Harry tenses. Sheepishly, he smiles up at Harry and drops his hands to his sides.

There is pink brushed across the top of Harry’s cheeks. “I have something…important, and… _big_ , to keep. In the closet,” Harry says, nearly a whisper. “If you…know what I mean.”

Louis’s jaw clenches involuntarily. Harry has said this exact same speech four times now. He thought they’d established a rapport. Does he really think lowly, non-celebrity Louis is so stupid that he didn’t understand the first three times? Harry is gay and in the closet. So what. It’s not like famous people invented closets. It’s insulting to hear repeatedly that Harry doubts his ability to understand what discretion is.

“Yeah. Got it.” Louis looks at the oak handrail. It’s a shame Harry won’t take this house. It’s a good one.

After a long, awkward moment, they start up the rest of the stairs and look at the master bedroom closet.

“S’pretty big,” Louis comments, as they stare into the void of it, side by side, arms crossed.

“Big enough for two?” Harry asks, voice soft.

Louis tilts his head, looking from a different angle. “Eh, you can do better,” he says, knowing already that Harry won’t be settling for this house. Whatever it is he wants, he clearly hasn’t found it yet.

 

Next up is a sea view manor in Santa Monica. Louis makes sure to get a little high, but not too high, and does it before he gets dressed so he doesn’t _smell_ like he’s high. Harry shows up on time for once. He’s got a laptop wrapped in his arms, across his chest. It’s funny. Louis laughs.

Just past the foyer, Harry makes his way to the breakfast nook and pulls out a chair. Louis finishes his sentence (even though he doesn’t remember what he’s saying) before he realizes that the chair is for him.

He slides in and watches Harry take the seat across from him. He looks so good, his usual glow more apparent in the muted light of a fog-dampened sunset.

“I was wondering, since you’re a songwriter, if you’d, erm, take a look at this one? Feel sort of lost with it. Thought you might have an idea.”

Louis stares blankly. Laughs in a way that sounds like a scoff. A pretty boy is asking him for his musical opinion? What a dream.

Harry is gesturing to the screen on his now open laptop, his pointer finger long and perfect for slowly opening up Louis’s ass. “Of course, I’d give you full credit, I wouldn’t…I’d never steal.”

So sincere, this third most famous boy. Naive. Takes people’s word for it when they say they’re songwriters.

“I uh…” Louis starts, unsure of where he’s going.

Shockingly, Harry speaks quickly enough to cut him off. “I really liked your one song, the one that’s like, _do do, do doooo, do…”_

Harry is humming one of Louis’s songs. Louis blinks. Harry is humming one of his songs.

“Thought maybe, like, this song needs a touch of that. If you think it’d work.”

Louis blinks again. Harry writes songs. Harry is asking for his assistance in songwriting. Harry has heard his songs. Harry…must have looked up his soundcloud? “You looked up my soundcloud?”

Harry’s gaze lowers abruptly to the computer screen. He drags one note over to the right in the programming software, then drags it back to where it was. “Youtube, actually,” he corrects casually.

“Right.” Louis feels frozen in space and time. The naiveté that has caused him no small amount of sexual frustration might now be… a gateway into the professional music writing industry? Harry Styles, dumb enough to think he needs an iron closet, sweet enough to think his real estate agent is worth crediting on a new song. Maybe Harry is just an actor or a youtuber, and this is his first attempt at songwriting, and Louis is the only songwriter he knows.

With his chin propped on one hand, Harry starts effortlessly belting out a melody, tracing the notes with the computer cursor.

Okay, so. Harry is definitely a singer. Louis’s whole spine shakes in the presence of Harry’s voice—pure but not refined, raw like a thick vein of natural crystal, just slightly rough around the edges from the caress of the ore that melts around it as he sings. Also, his voice sounds familiar. Maybe he _is_ played on the radio? Louis questions his whole reality as he scours his memory for the name _Harry Styles_. Maybe he has heard of him, somewhere in the music world. Regardless, Louis is definitely not the only songwriter he knows.

“Wait wait wait, stop,” Louis commands, addressing his reeling thoughts as much as he is Harry. But Harry stops singing. The air stops smelling like his tongue-kiss breath. Louis latches onto Harry’s obedience as an orientation point. “Back up. Sing these bars again.” He points to the part he means on the computer.

Harry obeys, with apparently zero self-consciousness regarding the volume of his voice.

That is, until Louis says, “Loud, aren’t we?” and Harry stares at him for a solid five seconds before blushing and lowering his gaze. Again, Louis latches on, seeking any upper hand he can grasp. “You want more dynamics here,” he says, stating his first impression as if it’s fact and feeling even higher that he was a half hour ago. “Not just volume—the notes. It’s a pop song, yeah? Right. Like, the chord progression needs a drop here, the second time.”

“Like this?” Harry asks eagerly, and then does exactly what Louis’s high brain imagined.

Louis is walking on fucking air.

They _collaborate_. They collaborate until the sun goes down, and weed-high slips easily into music-high. The song starts to feel complete, and conversation starts to feel stilted.

“I can’t believe how helpful you’ve been,” Harry says like the end of an hours-long sentence.

Louis giggles, biting the cuticle of his thumb as he looks at Harry’s face, wondering—maybe, Harry’s not completely off limits. Harry and his dimples. Harry and his lingering glances at his lips when Louis sang. Harry and his gay-magic voice.

Harry’s voice runs on fumes for a second, (a mid-fuck, between-thrusts sound,) and then sputters out, “If anything comes of this, I promise… I’ll have a contract sent to you tomorrow, yeah? This song is half yours, at this point.”

“Aw, we made a baby,” Louis says, stupid with excitement. The potential of his name on a song writing credit, (even if that song is sung by a youtuber,) is the biggest thing on his horizon.

He sobers up when he sees the look Harry is giving him, like he’s trying to force a telepathic connection like a teenager in a seventies paranormal horror movie. “I love babies,” Harry says, jaw clenched.

Of course Harry loves babies. He loves women, wives, babies, heterosexuality, the lot. How _could_ Louis have forgotten. What with the way he idly sucks on his thumb and licks his lips when Louis does and bites his lip when Louis shifts in his seat.

“Babies are sacred, and I never should have equated our songwriting with the sanctity of straight sex,” Louis apologizes, deadpan. The flatness in his voice is aided by the fact that he would rather die than be compared to straight sex. “Now, do you want to see the house or not?”

Harry has broad, gently muscular shoulders that shrink inward in times of distress, the opposite of how they would slacken under the attentions of Louis’s sharp teeth and wet mouth. He has a voice like an angel birthed by dirt, and a smile that breaks as slow and breathtaking-fast as sunshine after a storm. He has an earnestness and tenderness of spirit that Louis is sure will keep him up all night with visions of his and Harry’s names, side by side, on a marquis.

“Yes,” Harry answers, and it takes Louis a moment to realize he’s not agreeing to the daydreams of stardom that are blurred with flashes of Harry’s smile in Louis’s mind.

 

On a Thursday, Louis is lying on a closet floor, answering Harry’s polite questions about his little brothers and sisters and rambling about how much he loves children. 

His guard is down, because Harry got him high. Harry, who says that cigarettes kill but carries them anyways, Harry who wiped his feet so carefully at the front door so as not to bring a speck of dirt into the house Louis is showing but who is grinning dumbly up at the haze of smoke lingering by the thick wooden beams of the ceiling, Harry whose profile Louis could stare at for hours without his heart ever once settling down.

Then Harry turns his head to look over at him, pupils gaping dangerously big in a way that sucks the air from Louis’s lungs. “I want to adopt so many kids,” he says, careful and somehow even slower than usual.

_Adopt_. Louis would never think twice about the word if it weren’t delivered beneath such a heavy-lidded gaze. _Adopt so many kids_ , not _have so many kids_. Louis doesn’t even make the distinction when speaking, because people usually know what he means. But the way Harry says the word _adopt_ is how he has said, so many times, the word _closet_ : like it means something, like it’s a secret.

Harry’s gaze flickers down to Louis’s lips before dropping shut completely. Louis’s breath stutters, and Harry’s nostrils flare wide as he lets out a long, plaintive, humming sigh, just like he would a couple of sucks into a blowjob, starting to drift as he fattened up on Louis’s wet and ready tongue.

Moments away from drool falling out from the corner of his mouth, Louis swallows all his excess saliva down and licks his lips. Those sleepy green eyes open to catch the movement, and Louis feels suddenly inspired to call Harry out on his mixed signals, to recklessly put his mouth up against Harry’s breath and wait for him to taste how badly he wants to push his lips into Louis’s. To make Harry feel how easy it would be to fit another person in his closet.

It feels like a mindless spark of impulse. Louis could kiss his client, who is under-the-influence, who has infinitely more power than he does, who could react in a thousand negative ways during or after the event. 

Or, Louis could let the impulse pass, and return to professionally respecting his client’s confusion and weathering the storm of his mixed signals.

The moment passes. Harry lifts his gaze to look thoughtfully into his eyes. Louis waits to once again feel resigned, annoyed, frustrated, and bemused.

But it doesn’t happen. Something changes. Or, something has changed. Harry keeps looking at him carefully, and Louis’s heart keeps racing—not with wanting to kiss Harry, but with the thought, striking clear and loud as a cathedral bell, that Harry has been requesting to see so many houses because he wants to see _him_.

The simplicity of it shocks Louis. It’s too simple. Surely, if that were the case, Louis would have had the thought before? He has definitely thought exasperatedly about how Harry is _unconsciously_ dragging out their real estate interactions out of _unconscious_ awareness of their incredible chemistry.

But he has never asked himself: what if Harry is asking him into all these closets for a reason?

Baking in the closeness of the faded smoke and the yellow of the light bulb above them, Louis tries to read Harry’s expression. But Harry is breathing so evenly, staring so evenly, zero of his approximately seven hundred weird, twisting facial expressions on display.

Louis’s mouth is too dry to say anything. His mind is so abruptly flooded with light that he can’t grapple with all the suddenly visible questions; he hasn’t even thought about whether he would be comfortable starting a closeted relationship, because he hasn’t thought that was on the table.

Louis closes his eyes. _Harry could be very invested in remaining securely in the closet, and_ also ___be coming onto his realtor._

This whirlpool of questions and confusion has sent the desire to kiss Harry toward the back of his brain. There’s just… _so much_ to think about.

“Louis,” Harry says, softly.

Almost dreading having to open his eyes and figure out the right answer, or at least hope that whatever action he takes is the right one, Louis forces his brow to relax and his eyes to open.

But Harry is looking at the ceiling again. “I’m throwing a party, for some… music people, I guess you’d call ‘em. And erm…”

Louis waits patiently, trying not to think _he’s inviting me to his industry party_ , because that’s a childish thing to think. But Harry talks so _slow_.

“…I really, like…they’re people I want to impress, so…”

_Why would he be telling me this, unless inviting me is meant to impress them, in some way? Or maybe he’s telling me this to make sure I’ll stay away, because I’d make him look bad?_ Louis thinks, childishly.

“…I was wondering, could I get you to help me with…styling, that night?”

“ _Styling?”_ Louis blurts out, too surprised to do anything but. The buzz has faded, his guard is back up.

“Erm, yeah? I mean,” Harry says, sounding guilty, continuing to stare steadfastly at the ceiling like asking a fairly-flamboyant gay man for style advice is something that takes courage. “Maybe you don’t usually do two things for people. Like, I know you’re my realtor. But I, like, I trust your opinion, s’all, and you mentioned you’d done it before.”

“Done _what_ before?” Louis asks sharply, still too taken aback to rein in his tone.

“Working as a stylist,” Harry explains. Louis mentally runs through every one of their conversations, trying to remember something that will make him feel less unreasonably insulted. After a long moment, he vaguely recalls describing his drag makeup gigs as stylist work. Harry must have filed away that distraction tactic as real information. Harry must have been _listening_.

Come to think of it, Harry must have been listening more than Louis realized, because the first thing he’d done when they lay here on the floor to smoke was to ask Louis about his other client that he’d complained about last week. The second thing had been to ask about Louis’s sister, whom Louis had mentioned a long time ago.

“I’ll pay you for your time, of course.”

So. Harry pays attention to the details of his life, _might_ be more interested in pursuing their incredible chemistry than Louis realized, but also comes packaged with a serious closet and also… wants to keep inventing ways to pay him to spend time with him?

“You don’t have to pay me,” Louis cuts out. His jaw is clenched tight, probably more in confusion than frustration, but he’s too confused to know. Still, he can feel himself shutting down.

“But you'll help me?” Harry asks, his voice bizarrely breathy with hope. Instinctively, Louis is overwhelmed with wanting to give his boy what will make him happy. Or to meet his client’s needs. He doesn’t know.

Overwhelmed, instinctive, he simply says, “Yeah.”

“Cool,” Harry says, practiced, American-sounding. Side by side, they linger on the floor like the stale smoke, as though their mutual high was awkward sex, as though the afterglow has faded into uncomfortable silence, as though not sure if they’re meant to stay the night.

 

Louis doesn’t hear the doorbell ring when he presses the button. He chooses not to care. Either the bell worked, or it didn’t. Either way, eventually, he will enter Harry’s house—the first house Louis arranged for him—and he will clearly explain the conclusions he has arrived at after two days of messy thinking. He will call Harry out on his mixed signals. He will describe his limitations. (He can start a closeted relationship, but he refuses to alter his behavior, mannerisms, or lifestyle; he can promise to keep their sexual relations secret, but he will reserve the right to call Harry out on homophobic behavior, such as assuming that gay men want to be paid for their fashion advice; he can be a secret, but for reasons unrelated to morality and all to do with his own desires and their financially skewed power dynamic, he would need it to be a monogamous relationship.)

Or, worst case scenario, Harry will throw him out and Louis will be free from their intoxicating, stagnant tension. He will also be out god knows how many thousands of dollars, especially if Harry is the kind of guy to instruct his millionaire friends not to work with his ex-realtor.

Suddenly, Louis is struck by how stupid it was not to break his rule and Google Harry Styles, just to get an idea of whether he was the kind of person to ruin the careers of poor aspiring songwriters who proposition him at the wrong time. Maybe the doorbell _didn’t_ work, and he still has time to do a Google search on his phone. He pulls it out of the pocket of his (most flattering) black skinny jeans and keys in his passcode incorrectly in his haste.

The front door swings wide open. Like an absolute idiot, Louis drops his phone onto the fucking ground.

Harry stands there, looking like a disheveled angel, his chest heaving under his low-cut tank top like he rushed to get to the door. Their eyes lock, and a spark ignites in Louis’s gut that sucks up all the oxygen that had previously been sustaining his rational, organized thoughts.

“Oh, no,” Harry says, _apologetically_ , eyes dropping to Louis’s phone on the brick beneath him. Before Louis can process _any_ fucking thing, Harry drops into a neat little deep squat, twists so his legs are spread with his weight leaning forward onto one knee, and leans to gently pick up the phone at Louis’s feet. Louis can’t breathe, equally moved by the sight of Harry on his knees for him as he is by how obviously he does _not_ seem like the kind of person who would fuck over people’s careers out of spite.

Belatedly, Louis realizes that Harry is staring imploringly up at him because he is handing him his phone. “Thanks,” he says, touching Harry’s fingers as he takes the device, watching in wonder as Harry absorbs the gentle contact like impact, his whole body rippling in a manner imperceptible on the physical plane.

Okay, so this might be simpler than he has spent the last two days convincing himself it would be.

“First things first, those trousers are a no.”

Harry blinks, blushes, and then smiles. “No?”

Louis could cut to the chase here, demand _no_ trousers, period. But he had a plan. There’s so much he meant to talk about before demanding Harry’s nudity. “Unless you decided to invite the entire Republican party over, in which case, I might have to excuse myself.”

“No,” Harry chuckles, slowly unfurling to stand up straight. Well, not _so_ straight. His hip is decidedly cocked. “These are my golfing trousers. They’re comfortable for cooking.”

Louis lifts an eyebrow dramatically high. It speaks for itself.

Harry covers his mouth to keep his second chuckle from tumbling into the air. “All right, they’re comfortable for overseeing my chef. And uncorking _dozens_ of bottles of wine.”

Louis lets his eyebrow drop back down. Harry is so fuckable. Louis could take him right now. Or, right, they could talk first. They really should talk first. Then fuck. Louis wonders if they have enough time to do all of that before Harry is called away by party hosting duties. “What time does your…soiree begin?”

Harry’s eyes flash wide open, as though startled. “Erm, in… half an hour.”

“ _Half an hour_?” Louis asks, shoving past Harry into the foyer, distressed. That’s not enough time for half the things he has planned. That’s not even enough time to get Harry dressed. “Why didn’t you have me come earlier?”

“Well…” Harry says. It doesn’t seem like he’s about to continue any time soon.

“Jesus,” Louis sighs. He resigns himself to quickly picking an outfit for Harry Styles and making a graceful exit before the guests arrive. Maybe, tomorrow, they can talk. “Show me your godforsaken closet.”

Harry closes the door and, maintaining a two-feet circumference around Louis, orbits halfway around him. “You know the way,” he comments cheekily.

And Louis, who gave him a tour of this house not so long ago, does. He bites the inside of his cheek as he shoots Harry a _why the fuck did you only give me an half hour to work with_ look. Then, he marches down the hallway toward the staircase.

The bedroom feels somewhat different than it did the last time Louis was here. The carpet and paint haven’t been changed, but their pale color seems somehow warmer overall, as though Harry’s presence brightens them. The bed is made, the floor is clean, aside from a solitary pair of discarded briefs crumpled on the floor. Of course. Louis glares at them for a second before choosing to forget about anything that might still be warm from Harry’s junk.

Louis heads for the walk-in closet, with Harry unfailingly two steps behind him. Annoyed with himself, Louis recognizes that he has been unconsciously walking with his ass sticking out, for the benefit of the viewer. He tucks his pelvis back in.

The closet feels _completely_ different from the last time he’d seen it. There’s a rainbow of bright colors, because apparently, Harry Styles doesn’t organize by style, type of garment, or anything useful. “So you just, what, decide what color you feel like wearing one day and pick whatever happens to be that color?” Louis asks, glaring at the ROYGBIV-organized garments on hangers. How on earth is he meant to find anything suitable for Harry to wear to a party when all he can see is bright crimson, floral silk Gucci suits hanging next to a baseball tee from Randy’s fucking Donuts. There are ripped-up blue jeans next to a soft blue knit sweater, and Louis shudders when he imagines the two pieces worn together.

“Well, sort of,” Harry mumbles. He’s _smirking_. Louis walks further into the closet, toward the greens, and Harry follows. “I like rainbows.”

Louis’s eyes roll all the way to the back of his head. Harry likes rainbows. And he chooses _now_ to drop this horrible, embarrassing hint. When Louis has to put him _in_ clothes instead of take him _out_ of them, or else risk making it obvious to every industry executive who shows up to this stupid party in twenty minutes that Harry arrives late to his own parties because he needs to get fucked hard and messy until he can’t think straight, let alone pour a glass of champagne for… for _whoever_ was coming.

“How formal is the event?” Louis asks through his clenched jaw. “Custom denim? Last season? Next season? _Joggers_?” he trudges on, flicking through Harry’s hundreds of hangers for inspiration. “Color? Black? Monochrome?”

“Oh, er,” Harry says helpfully.

Louis makes the mistake of looking Harry up and down. (Like he hasn’t already committed Harry’s shape to memory and fantasized about mouthing over every inch of his legs.) His stomach drops. He doesn’t have any better ideas about dressing Harry than he did a moment ago. “Black,” he says, speaking into the wall of hanging fabric. “You look fucking hot in black. Are jeans too casual?”

He doesn’t get a response. He takes a deep breath in preparation for seeing Harry’s body again without being able to do anything about it, and turns around. Harry is just standing there, blushing, and fucking smiling. _God_ , it’s going to take forever to get _anywhere_ with this boy if he can’t even handle being called _hot_.

“Jeans it is,” Louis murmurs. He just needs to get out of here. There are at least twenty pair of black jeans, in varying levels of distress. Louis pages through them, glancing at their general shape, and eventually grabbing a faded pair with only a couple of rips in them. The denim is the sturdy kind with hardly any lycra, and they look like they’re as old as Mick Jagger. He turns to hand over the jeans. “Try these.”

Harry doesn’t take them from his hand. He just continues to stand there, blushing, for a second. Then, he slightly lowers his head, and slides his thumbs into the waistband of his “golf” trousers.

Louis swallows, his life flashing before his eyes. He thinks of the briefs lying on the bedroom floor, his heart skipping a beat as he wonders how much, exactly, he’s about to see.

There are tight, black briefs, (thank god,) but there’s also a fucking hefty bulge with _detail_ contained by them, and then dark hair spreading out to meet pale, creamy thighs that appear to tremble under Louis’s rapt gaze. Harry’s inner thigh muscles stand out in relief as he steps out of one leg, then the other, revealing his tapered calves and bony, kissable knees. Louis stares. He might just drop to the floor to worship those legs with his mouth—fuck fashion, fuck parties, fuck self-preservative preliminary conversations.

Louis watches three breaths expand Harry’s torso, the flesh of his padded hips digging further into the elastic with each one. Then, Harry’s hands drop to the bottom of his tank top, and start to draw it upward, slowly. There’s a fucking visible _twitch_ of Harry’s cock, which takes on a suddenly sharper shape in his briefs than before. Louis stops breathing. The shirt inches up Harry’s stomach, revealing his navel.

The doorbell rings.

Louis drops the jeans onto the floor.

Harry drops the hem of his top, covering up all that fresh, soft skin. On instinct, Louis turns away from him and back to the racks of clothing. He breathes, for the first time in what feels like minutes.

“I should er,” Harry stutters, “I should get that.”

Louis swallows and looks up at the ceiling. “Can’t afford the staff to do it for you?” He fights his resentment for this unknown guest, fights the dismaying feeling that the first guest’s arrival heralds his own departure. It’s time to leave Harry to the people who think he’s straight.

There’s the sound rustling clothes, and Louis turns his head just enough to confirm that the jeans do hug and hang off of Harry’s frame at just the right places. “I’m the host,” Harry protests. It takes Louis a moment to realize that he’s actually so curiously old-fashioned and humble as to think that a host must answer his own door and uncork his own wine.

“Louis?”

Driven to give his boy what he asks for, Louis turns enough to meet Harry’s eyes. He can’t find his voice to respond vocally.

Harry keeps the eye contact as he lowers his head, making his lashes drape meaningfully over his shining eyes. “I’ll be back,” he says, simply.

Louis makes himself nod, and then Harry is walking out of the closet with the jeans Louis picked out hugging his ass.

“Fuck me,” Louis groans out as soon as Harry’s socked footsteps are out of range. He is past the fucking breaking point. Mixed messages have transformed into blatant seduction with a twist of gracious hostess. What is Louis supposed to do with that. 

He gasps in a huge breath, and with it comes a thought.

_Google_.

Because seriously, what is up with this fucking kid? He needs to know. He needs to know what he’s getting into, because he’s about to jump this boy’s bones if he doesn’t get any info encouraging him to sober up and grow a fucking brain.

He fumbles with his pocket, almost drops his phone again, and unlocks his phone on the first try this time. _Harry Styles_ , he types into the search engine, and hits the search button.

_Harry Styles, Medicine, Live_ , is a top video result. “ _He wrote THAT fucking song?”_ Louis whisper-shouts to himself. The song he has personally referred to as the rimming/comeplay song every time it came on the radio, which was way too often for Louis’s comfort, as he felt incredibly awkward when straight people unwittingly sang gay songs. But honestly, that made sense. Harry’s voice. That was _Harry’s voice_ singing about thirsting over come. Louis’s cock twitches just thinking about it. 

That is not what he needed.

Wikipedia blurb. _Singer-songwriter. Actor. Talent show contestant. Born February 1, 1994_. A picture of Harry holding a rainbow Pride flag. How did Louis not hear anything about this guy before? Is he really that out of touch?

“What the fu…” Louis rasps, scrolling back up to the news articles.

_Eyebrows raised as Sam Smith and Harry Styles…_

_Harry Styles cuts ribbon at center for LGBT_ … 

_Two years since Harry Styles shook the world…_

_Harry Styles talks growing up gay in small Cheshire village…_

_Second album to be “even gayer than the first”, says Harry Styles…_

Louis drops his phone.

“Louis?”

Apparently, Harry has returned. There’s no way Louis could have heard it, what with the cacophonous ringing in his ears. Harry is _not in the closet_.

Louis looks up at this life-ruining, impossible idiot. He’s looking back at Louis like he’s been waiting to be kissed for _weeks_.

Breathing so hard it feels like panic, or fury, Louis barrels into Harry, the touch of their bodies lighting up his spine with electricity. “You’re _out of the closet?!”_ Louis gasps, getting a firm grasp on Harry’s upper arm, which bends to his will, and pushing forward with his hips until he and Harry are surrounded by orange fabric, colliding with the nearest available wall. His breath comes out a whine as he presses Harry into the wall, legs interlocking, groins and stomachs surging together, and breaths integrating in the gold-tinted darkness.

Harry gasps, sharper than Louis’s ever heard. It makes his cock flex warmly against the heat of Harry’s thigh, makes him feel faint. “ _You know I’m gay?”_ Harry asks, a huge fucking smile in his voice. Louis lifts his eyes from the soft glint of Harry’s wet lips and looks at the rest of his face—ecstatic, childlike. Fucking confusing.

“Fuck,” Louis grunts, spreading his legs just a bit to nestle deeper against Harry’s thigh. “Apparently the _whole world_ does?”

His voice is drowned out by Harry’s, which moans openly and obscenely ( _like his singing voice!)_ as he spreads his legs to make himself shorter and bring Louis’s hardening cock closer. “Didn’t…” his hips circle against Louis’s, and _fuck_ , there it is, that fat, long line against Louis’s hip. “Didn’t think, you. Didn’t want to, _ah_ …”

Fuck, his breath tastes so good, Louis can’t hold back any longer. He slides his hands alongside Harry’s jaw and cradles the back of his skull, tilting him away from the wall until he can— _yes_ , kiss those lips he’s been staring at for so long.

Harry’s lips work diligently and give way obediently like he’s trying to do such a good job, like Louis could do anything _but_ kiss the living daylights out of him. Harry’s lips are the best thing he’s ever tasted, the best softness he’s ever touched, the most delicate wetness he’s ever slipped his tongue over. And fuck if he wasn’t right, if Harry isn’t kissing him back like he’s convinced that together, they’re god’s gift to gay sex.

It’s sliding and sweet and they’re both panting out whining breaths, but Harry’s taste like heaven and Louis is crazy with licking them up from deep within Harry’s huge, loose mouth.

Harry’s hands squeeze across Louis’s lower back, where they’re resting so politely. Louis lets his own fingers draw down to caress Harry’s throat, pulls away to look at his thumb pulling Harry’s lower lip down, distorting the skin rubbed so pink from Louis’s light stubble. Harry’s nostrils flare with each breath, and Louis can hardly see it in this dimmed light in the damp, close place between these parted hangers.

“Di’n want t’assume you knew who I was,” Harry says with great effort. He pants hot breaths onto Louis’s face after. Louis is dizzy with how good it tastes, how hot it falls.

“So you…” Louis’s mind races, flitting over _closets_ and _adopting_ and _not-bachelor pads_ and the bananas, all the fucking bananas, jesus, and _Harry Styles talks growing up gay in small Cheshire village,_ and was all of it just some tragic attempt to communicate? Had he really thought he was being _subtle_?

Louis kisses him, dropping the subject. Plenty of time to talk later, when he doesn’t have Harry squirming and hot under him. Though based on how incredible it feels, and how enthusiastically Harry is responding, (neck arching back against his palms, hips straining, voice cracking open his breaths, all of it as good as Louis knew it would be,) Louis might not do anything else ever again.

But then Harry starts squirming _too_ much, like he’s trying to get away. His hips slide to the left, and he breaks the kiss to whisper, “’ve wanted you f’ _so_ long.”

If it weren’t for those words, Louis would feel the devastation of impending abandonment as Harry slides out from under him and goes all the way to the other side of the closet. But Harry actually communicated something, so what Louis feels is just simple, patient confusion.

He watches, focusing on breathing to keep his mind from wandering, as Harry bends at the waist to pick up his discarded golf slacks and rifle through one pocket, then the other. Does he need to check his phone? What on earth could be so important that Harry has to get it _now_.

“Do you have guests waiting for you?” Louis asks, having failed from keeping his mind from wandering enough to remember the ringing doorbell.

Harry smiles as his hand pauses in the trousers pocket. “Yeah,” he murmurs offhandedly, as he pulls out two condoms and one of those little packets of lube, drops the slacks, and takes two big steps back to Louis, whose jaw has dropped almost as low as his stomach has.

“Ah,” he squeaks out of pure elation and a swell of need.

Harry presses his forehead to Louis’s, slouching to push their dicks together at the same time. “Fuck me, please, Louis.” He pushes the three foil packages into Louis’s instinctively curling hand.

Louis’s mouth has run absolutely dry. He has to swallow twice and kiss the moisture from Harry’s lower lip three times before he can talk. “You always this prepared?” he asks, stalling for time, trying to remember the hundred reasons why it would be a bad idea to fuck Harry Styles right now.

Harry ducks his head further down, his high hairline scraping against Louis’s brow as he shakes his head mildly. “When’m gonna see you, yeah.”

That shouldn't make Louis’s cock throb like it does. He should be frustrated at the wasted time, or embarrassed by what were apparently Harry’s attempts at asking to get fucked. _The coat_ , Louis remembers. “Is _this_ what you were hiding from me in your pocket, that one time?”

Harry nods, their temples sliding together. Louis drops the packets to the floor and slides his hand down between their legs, instead. “So fucking desperate,” he says, not attempting to hide the fondness in his voice. “Not a virgin, are you?” He twists his hand and feels for the length of Harry’s erection in his jeans, presses his way to the tip, presses his way—his _long_ way—back to the base.

“N- _no,_ ” Harry sighs, thrusting full and hungry into Louis’s palm. Fuck, his cock feels hot and thick. Louis wants it all over him.

But Louis stops in his tracks, pulling back on the pressure as though Harry just asked him to stop. “Yeah?” he asks, teasingly.

“No,” Harry says, voice tight. He’s rubbing his smooth cheek repeatedly over Louis’s, like he’s trying to rough himself up. His hips stay beautifully, achingly still, with Louis’s touch hovering over his cock.

“No?” Louis pulls back even further, offering to stop. He’s fucking with him now, wants to confuse him, make him ask for it like he should have done weeks ago.

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry asks, his hips losing a touch of their control, shoving forward.

“Yes, you are a virgin?”

“N—” Harry grunts. He makes fists in Louis’s t-shirt. He makes a keening sound, as though giving up on figuring out the game. “Just touch me, _Louis_.”

Grinning so wide it hurts, so desperate to touch Harry that there are tears in his eyes, Louis makes quick work of Harry’s button fly and slips inside the damp heat of his briefs.

He goes still at first contact, breath stolen by the singular soft weight of Harry’s bare length against his palm. When it flexes against his hand, Louis remembers how to move. He sucks in a breath as Harry wheezes frantically out from his clamped throat. He cradles Harry’s cock where it’s heaviest and draws it out into the air. He looks down at the shining head under soft-looking foreskin, something perfect to slip his tongue under and lick clean.

His hand closes tight and pulls like it’s his own pleasure he’s got control of.

“Mmmh,” Harry grunts, like the sound is ripped out of him.

“Good?” Louis asks, giving another tug so Harry knows what he’s asking. 

“ _Good.”_ Harry fills up hard in his hand, so firm and crepe-paper soft it makes Louis’s hand feel like a fucking erogenous zone. 

“Good, love,” he whispers, sliding his free hand into Harry’s hair and drawing his head closer. It’s Harry who tilts his head until their lips slide together. It’s Louis who whimpers into the kiss, shocked by the swollen-fat heat of Harry’s lip—the remnants of their last kiss, the way Harry’s lip will feel after _every time_ Louis gets his mouth around it. It’s Louis who bites down. It’s Harry who bucks into Louis’s hand, who wraps an elbow around the back of Louis’s head to push their bodies too close for kissing.

“Had a condom and lube all ready for me to fuck you with, this whole time?” Louis whispers, feeling hot with _knowing_ as he mouths at Harry’s jawline and twists his hand up and down the length of Harry’s perfect, dark pink cock. “Could’ve just stripped and spread your legs for me, yeah? Bent yourself over all those balconies I showed you?”

“Please,” Harry whines, not really an answer.

Louis adjusts his strokes, following the surges of Harry’s cock, catering to what he responds to best. Harder and lighter, intermittently slower and harder. He gathers saliva and spits vaguely downward, aiming for his hand. Half of it lands on Harry’s drawn-bare cock tip, and Harry cries out into Louis’s hair, the happiest sound Louis has ever heard. “So good for me, so well prepared. Did you… Bet you even opened yourself up for me?” Louis gasps, stricken by the thought.

Harry chokes on spit. His cock is burning against Louis’s palm, and Louis wants blisters so badly.

“Bet you’d open up so easy for me.” Louis spits again, letting it drop gently from his mouth down onto his hand, or Harry’s cock, or the place where they meet. Harry whimpers as it lands, and Louis wonders if his saliva feels cold by the time it drips all the way down onto Harry’s fire-hot cock.

It’s actually wet enough this time. Louis can drag his hand over the hard flesh underneath, without feeling like he’s breaking the thin skin stretched over it. The rhythm he finds makes his own cock throb in tandem. Only now, with the lubrication, do his own words catch up with him, and he imagines the delicate-skin-stretched-and-rubbing-over-hard-flesh feeling of Harry’s ass around his fingers, just like this, but different, closer.

“I would,” Harry articulates after an apparently drawn-out struggle. His cock trembles in Louis’s palm, like the act of being pushed to the point of talking dirty gets him close. He goes frightfully still, then comes alive under Louis’s twisting drag.

Louis backs off on the pressure, presses his thumb with what he knows is terrible gentleness into the vulnerable, dripping slit of Harry’s tip. He rubs as though he’s never felt such a thing before, rubs like he can _feel_ Harry needs him to. Teasing, almost nothing, swirling so lightly until Harry’s hips are shaking with indecision about whether to thrust forward or cant away from the painfully fragile contact. Louis brings the foreskin decisively down to stick behind the head of Harry’s cock, keeps sliding his fist down, his own cock jumping at the loose slide of skin all the way down until it’s gathered at Harry’s base—barely-there crinkles Louis desperately wants to map with his tongue.

“Bet you’d come for me, right now, if I asked you to,” Louis breathes out. He bites the nearest available thing—Harry’s short stands of hair, his ear—to offset the softness of Harry’s cock giving so sweetly under his deepening strokes.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, mouth opening where he’s bent to tongue at the neck of Louis’s t-shirt.

This makes Louis’s cock feel about ready to burst through his own jeans and press against Harry’s. He loses himself, picks up the pace with his hand as though it’s himself he’s touching. Harry’s cock stills, tremulous, a terrible long pulse across Louis’s palm, a twitch against his fingertips. “Yeah?”

Harry answers.

Louis is startled into stillness as the first fat strand hits his stomach, the heat of it wet through his shirt, a drop or two catching on his wrists, which have never felt so sensitive. His stillness fades quickly, replaced by _knowing_ how to touch Harry through the rest of it, how to drag and cradle as he spurts out two more, three more strands onto Louis’s shirt. The weight of Harry’s come on his stomach feels like weight on his cock, choking him with needing to have all of Harry.

He slows into the fifth pulse of Harry’s cock, and gently rubs the next, the next, the rest out of him, carefully drawing out as much as he can. One flick over the sticky, overheated glans, and another, after it all, just to feel.

As pulses turn into aftershocks, Louis’s breath evens out. Harry’s breaths drop heavy across the back of his neck. Louis already wants to make Harry come again.

Just as Louis feels the first tug of retreat in Harry’s cock, Harry lifts his head and shoves his lips into Louis’s, knocking his head backward into the wall _._ They kiss, they kiss, Harry tastes like the best orgasm Louis ever had, and Louis lets his handful disappear back into the stretched-out briefs before pulling Harry in close with an arm wrapped around his waist.

Everything softens, quiets, as Harry’s heart rate lessens, as his lungs fill with Louis’s breaths.

The doorbell rings.

Louis strokes his knuckles up and down Harry’s spine, waits for the sound to sink in. Harry keeps sucking hungrily at his lips.

Reluctantly, Louis stumbles into responsibility, and whispers, “Your guests are waiting,” while telling his dick to be calm down, be patient.

“Mm,” Harry says helpfully, continuing to kiss across Louis’s lips.

Louis is sobering up, remembering the reality that Harry has a huge, unknown life to live outside of his arms, remembering that he has to share. His stomach coils up happily, his arousal eager to wait for the next opportunity.

“Come on, love,” Louis murmurs, pulling Harry’s head up straight. “I’ll fuck you later? You’ve got people to impress.” He wouldn’t be so presumptuous if he had come, if his mind was clear.

Harry hums, or chuckles, or something in between. His tongue fits between Louis’s teeth and sweeps thoroughly over him, sucking in his hopes and dreams. “Louis?” he asks with his wet lips pushing Louis’s apart.

“Uh-huh?” Louis responds, licking out over the crest of Harry’s lower lip. Harry giggles, and leans more deeply into him.

“Would you, please, come to my party?”

Louis scoffs, because, of _course_ he wants to come to Harry’s fucking party, because Harry must be delirious, to think of inviting him now, instead of inviting him two days ago. His dick instantly begins to calm down, as he chokes with the anxious possibility that he could actually be socializing with music industry folks within the hour.

Harry encircles Louis’s neck with his arms and squeezes. Giggling, he spills out, “It’s the reason I told you to come over so late… Hoped I could trick you into staying.”

Louis can’t stop the excited leap of his heart at the thought that Harry had made so many plans, brought so many condoms to house tours, asked him for fashion advice just to get him in his house.

The doorbell rings again.

Louis looks down at his stained shirt. He pushes Harry far enough that they can both move into the lighter part of the closet. “I’d love to come to your party, Harry,” he says, making a point of looking down at the wet spots and shaking his head. “But, I’ll need to borrow a shirt, _and—_ ”

“And?” Harry asks, hands already drifting breathtakingly at the hem of Louis’s shirt. So eager.

“ _And_ , you can’t introduce me as your realtor, because I quit.”

Louis tips forward and kisses him. And kisses him again, because apparently, he can. Kissing is so much better than confusing real estate journeys.

“Actually,” Harry says, lips wet against Louis’s. “I was wondering, could I… I would really like… can I, introduce you as… my boyfriend?”

His eyelashes flutter open so slowly, with so much intent. Louis—Louis is overwhelmed. Harry is asking him to be his _boyfriend_. Asking him to meet people who are important to his career and his future, and introduce Louis as a _part of that future_. Harry has thought about Louis fucking him for weeks now, and Louis has only just realized this. It’s a lot.

“Or,” Harry murmurs, his hands clutching idly at Louis’s waist, nerves apparently making him speak more than he ever has before. “As the co-writer of my latest song, if you’d prefer. It’s, erm, it’s up to you.”

Louis is touched, somewhere, beneath all the gauzy layers of overwhelm and desire and excitement to spend every waking moment exploring all the embarrassing tics Harry Styles possesses in his entire body.

_Some people I’d like to impress_ , Louis remembers. _Harry wants to introduce Louis as his boyfriend to people he wants to impress_.

“How about we switch it up, half and half. Really get ’em talking,” Louis whispers, beyond ecstatic to have Harry by his side, to have the prospect of Harry by his side for the rest of the evening.

Harry looks carefully into his eyes. It’s startling, the first flash of green since his pupils have retracted. “Really?” he asks, so hopeful.

“Really. As soon as I… clean up, and borrow a shirt.” His heart keeps skipping a beat, because when he drove here, he planned on making a move on Harry, but he did not in the slightest anticipate being called Harry’s _boyfriend_.

Harry pulls away, looking down at his own jeans to button them up, and maybe to check for stains, too. “You know the way to the master bath,” he reminds Louis, a cheeky note in the chord of his voice. “Louis?”

“Yeah?”

Harry’s eyes drag over his body, snagging on Louis’s crotch for a long moment before crawling back up to his eyes. Louis’s fingers twitch compulsively toward the condom on the floor.

The follow-up question is not what he’s expecting. “Now that you’ve quit, erm, do you— _like_ this house?”

Harry is so weird. Louis can’t wait to figure him out. Cocking his head in confusion, he answers, “Yeah, it’s nice.”

Harry turns away, getting _shy_ or something as he starts to pull his shirt over his head—with his arms crossed and a great deal of shimmying, like a girl. It’s adorable. His back muscles look perfect for grabbing hold of for maneuvering purposes. Louis groans. Through the fabric of his shirt, Harry asks, “Like, you’d like to spend, you know, spend a lot of time here?” The shirt hits the floor. Louis still struggles to understand what he’s on about. “Or would you be happier—spending a lot of time, at a beachside house, or that—craftsperson? house? I think you called it,” he rambles on. Louis is just about to burst into laughter when Harry adds, “Or, d’you think, an open-minded Victorian—”

“Oh my god, Harry!” Louis shouts, biting back the worst of his laughter. He pulls his own shirt over his head just to swat Harry with it, and only regrets it slightly when Harry looks over at him with a nervous expression. To make up for it, Louis moves into his space and pushes his laughter right into Harry’s lips, which are now gently curved in a hopeful smile. “I think you should pour me a glass of wine and maybe take me to dinner first before you start buying houses for me to move in with you.” He shakes his head, at Harry’s ridiculousness, at himself for being instantly intoxicated by the smell of Harry’s skin so close. “You’re ridiculous.”

Harry shrugs. “I know what I like,” he murmurs against Louis’s cheek.

Louis turns into the pressure, catches Harry’s lips with his, tastes his smile. “So do I.”

The doorbell rings.


End file.
